Mistleton and Other Men

“I tell you, Bush, we couldn’t make this stuff up,” Woody remarked, glancing at the latest tour group against the twisted branches that loomed in the distance.

“At least now people will think twice before climbing into the hawthorns to steal the mistletoe,” Mistleton replied, his tone flat and lacking any trace of amusement.

Visitors to Mistleton Farm usually kept their distance from the hawthorns, and now they dared not touch them, fearing they might meet the same fate as Stella Stiles. After all, only one thorn on each tree brings good luck. The rest bring misery.

Vibrant and abundant clusters of mistletoe have adorned the hawthorns at the farm for as long as anyone in East Plainfield can remember. A hemiparasite, mistletoe attaches itself to the branches of trees, drawing water and nutrients from its host while also photosynthesizing its own food. As it grows, it forms thick, rounded masses known as witches’ brooms. Ancient cultures believed mistletoe possessed magical properties, and while it is most associated with love and romance, its historical and cultural significance includes links to male virility. Traditional herbalists often recommend it to enhance fertility. Although it is a year-round plant, it is heavily harvested in December for use in holiday wreathes and bouquets.

As tragic as Stella’s death was, it came at an opportune time for Mistleton. Without a designated successor, Stella’s Glamour Palace was set to enter probate, where a court-appointed administrator would dissolve the business, liquidate the assets, including the building, and thereby free up a prime business location right next door to the Vine. Mistleton had plans for that space.

Not that he thought about it often, but Mistleton couldn’t recall a time in his life when things didn’t go his way. As an only child of indulgent parents, he grew up surrounded by lavish displays of affection and entertainment. Extravagant birthday parties, exotic vacations, a private tutor who’d accompany him and his parents on long-term stays overseas, and a Dutch Warmblood pony named Noble defined his childhood. Four tumultuous years at the prestigious École des Cloches in Normandy—and his metamorphosis from “Bushie” into “Bush”—shaped his late adolescence. His parents bought Le Refuge des Chêsnes, an old grange outside Rambouillet, so they could be close to him while remaining within reach of Paris. It was during those years that Mistleton voraciously explored every corner of France.

Fluent in the language, he stayed in the country beyond boarding school, taking over for his parents at Des Chêsnes. After two years of preparatory classes, he eventually enrolled at ENS Paris-Baclay to pursue a doctorate in chemistry. He drove his Andalusian red Peugeot 504 cabriolet to and from campus when the weather was nice and his Alaska white all-wheel drive 405 when it wasn’t. He set up a small home laboratory in the old washhouse so that he could conduct his research experiments away from the prying eyes of his Baclay lab peers.

Mistleton felt at home at Des Chêsnes from the moment he first stepped foot on the property. The main house, a sturdy two-story structure built from the same creamy beige Lutetian limestone as many of the region’s medieval churches and other architectural landmarks, was originally a barn that, with several other outbuildings, was separated from the main house in the 1920s. Along the long elevation facing a small walled garden, three white-shuttered French doors and matching upper-story windows added charm, while a gently sloping terracotta roof with an undulating brow completed the rustic aesthetic.

Inside, apart from a sleeping loft at one end, the space was entirely open, anchored by a large stone and brick hearth that dominated one of the gabled walls. The ceiling soared, revealing large oak rafters and robust roof beams that lent a sense of grandeur and rustic charm to the room. The floor and the countertop near the fireplace were covered in glazed red clay tiles, their hues ranging from deep terracotta to rich crimson.

When he wasn’t in one of the labs, one of his Peugeots, or living his best country life at Des Chêsnes, he was on one of his bikes, usually his jet black nine-speed Look 456 that he had picked up for a song at a shop in Gazeran. When he sought a challenge, he tackled the rolling hills of the Forest of Rambouillet nearby. On quieter days, he preferred the paved paths winding through the forest’s meadows and around its serene artificial lakes. He always paused for an energy bar near the castle, taking in the view as he recharged.

After graduation and an extended celebratory road trip of the northern Mediterranean from Spain to the Western Balkans, his father called in a favor from an associate, securing Mistleton a research position in the innovative medicines division of a pharmaceutical company in Philadelphia, which is how he ended up back in the United States. Reluctant to part with Des Chêsnes, he enlisted the services of a local real estate agent specializing in short-term vacation rentals so that he could generate some income from the property without fully letting go of it, keeping the option to return whenever he wanted.

Mistleton enjoyed his time in Philadelphia, indulging in trendy restaurants, cycling through Fairmount Park or Montgomery and Bucks counties, and representing his company at donor events at the Franklin Institute. One fateful Friday night, he wound up at the Bike Shop, a leather bar in the city’s Washington Square West neighborhood. It was there that he found him.

To the average person, they might seem like an unlikely pair. He boasted a strong, defined face with broad features. His square, prominent jawline gave him a rugged appearance, and his wide, alert eyes were framed by straight eyebrows that sat low on his brow. His hair was thick with a mix of light brown and subtle dark brown streaks. The top was brushed neatly to the side, and the sides were shorter but still full. He seemed too tall to be a wrestler, but his build resembled one, with broad shoulders and chest, a thick neck, and well-defined arms and legs that suggested both brute strength and agility. He had structured, sensual, and utterly kissable lips.

In contrast, Mistleton had a narrow face, characterized by high cheekbones and a pointed chin. His thin, sharply defined eyebrows arched subtly above his dark, piercing eyes, lending him an air of severity. His straight, medium length chestnut hair had a slightly messy, tousled look. His bangs parted unevenly in front, with some strands falling over his forehead. His lean, toned physique—ranging from a slender upper body to well-sculpted calves—was the result of years spent long-distance cycling. It implied endurance over brute strength.

After a couple rounds of drinks and small talk, each of them not needing to delve into the other’s interests or background, they ended up in the backroom where, as if it had been foretold, his brute strength and agility put Mistleton’s endurance to the test. A week later, his apartment shuttered and his pharmaceutical job behind him, Mistleton arrived at Mistleton Farm, just as the mistletoe, entering its reproductive cycle, started sprouting its small white flowers and green leaves.